


Dedicated

by Kiwi Stubbly-Punk (cranky__crocus)



Series: Harry Potter Fests '10 [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_yule_balls, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Kiwi%20Stubbly-Punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luna is dedicated to finding herself many years after the war. Pansy is dedicated to evolving herself for her career and life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dedicated

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hp_yule_balls (Livejournal comm) for 2010. I'll write more when I've re-read and edited it at a later date. (:

Luna’s mother always told her she would she make a wonderful mother. It was evident in the way she cared for the little animals, her mother said: so maternal. She had even dutifully looked after creatures others couldn’t see.

            Luna had always expected this would be true, in the way that a daughter inherently trusts her mother—especially when she has already passed over. She thought she would make a good mother.

            It broke her heart, then, when she didn’t.

 

 

Pansy’s mother always told her she would make a wonderful wife. It was evident in the way she pampered and primped, her mother said: so dedicated. She had even dutifully looked after her face and managed to soothe the appearance of her pug nose—not to be called ‘mug’ like her ugly older sister.

            Pansy had always expected this would be true, in the way that a daughter inherently trusts her mother—especially when she married one of the richest Purebloods around. She thought she would make a good wife.

            It did not break her heart, though, when she didn’t.

 

 

Luna was acutely aware of darkness because she was equally aware of light; when one hyper-focused on the yin or yang with fervent hope, the presence of the other was equally noted: compare and contrast, up and down, light…and dark.

            Her life had felt dark for a long time now. She remembered the feeling of true darkness; this was not as overwhelming as that feeling. No, it contrasted that pervading feeling: this darkness seemed underwhelming. It seeped into every aspect of her life, this numbing sensation—this disconnect and discontent.

            In years past, during battles and escapes, she had been fighting an exterior foe. Luna had gathered her strength to defeat this monster that was the embodiment of her and other witches’ and wizards’ fear. She had pulled herself through pitch black and torture with the knowledge that someday, this foul monster would be defeated—freedom and peace would reign once more.

            It was supposed to, Luna thought. Freedom and peace were supposed to feel lighter than this, certainly. Surely it was meant to be more a dusting of newly-fallen snow to be appreciated than a seemingly endless ice storm that leaves one trapped homebound and starving.

            Without the exterior opponent, Luna crumpled. Without the exterior opponent, Luna had only her interior to face; her inner daemons were larger and darker for the time she had denied them attention. She was frightened of what she had left inside, which was in no way her self, or at least what self she had had Before.

            It was all very strictly defined into Before and After in her mind: Before the Darkness was happiness and her self; After the Darkness was…heavy, sad wizard’s fog that clung to anything.

            ‘ _I’m not the Luna I used to be_ ,’ Luna scrawled into the air with her wand. It blazed blue as the letters dangled and shifted. ‘ _Then Luna must die to be I_ ,’ the letters spelled once they had reformed. Luna watched the letters and shivered at the memories threaten to grasp her again.

            To be whole, she knew she must open that place she locked away and kill it with light. That was the only thing that ever worked against darkness, or so she had always believed.

 

 

Pansy had never been a hero, nor did she approve of the word ‘heroine’, as close as it was to a ridiculous Muggle drug. As a Slytherin, she thought the role of hero was daft and useless unless for strict exploitation by a wiser behind-the-scenes adversary. She would never be the hero.

            Unlike many of her peers, she was not in journalism to be a hero. Pansy was in journalism to make a name for herself—a name for _her self_ , against the idea that she was not a complete or named entity until she took her rightful place as wife. She desired no husband, although she lusted after their equipment from time to time. They were useful whenever the old plumbing to go on strike and do unexpected, unpleasant things, too. Beyond sexual fulfilment and the occasional domestic task, she found little use for them.

            Pansy had run away from the Battle of Hogwarts, had run away from a relationship with one of the most powerful wizards of her time, had run from any confrontation in which someone was not firmly planted in front of her as a shield. With Draco gone and reformed, she had learned the sensation of ‘fame’ but endeavoured not to feel it in overabundance. No matter, she would _not_ run from her desire for fame.

            She worked her ass off for herself and no one else. This was her ambition. And, for a Slytherin, she put incredible amounts of work into achieving fame. If it weren’t illegal, she would be sleeping in her office every nice and teaching herself to sleep-write. She worked ten times harder than anyone else in the office; she deserved her name on the first page.

            Pansy would have been succeeding, as well, if it weren’t for her overgrown pick of a boss, Stanmore. He made them all call him Master Stanmore, though Pansy found great difficulty calling anyone _Master_ without vomiting, least of all a man with a name as boring as his. She could scarcely believe a man could be as boring, power-hungry and perverted as he was.

            She was not running from her career. The confrontations within her daily work, however, were another story.

            He had called her in earlier that afternoon.

 

 

“Dada?” a gentle voice was calling from the doorway.

            Luna woke slowly to the feeling of Sandlizard paper in her throat. She knew the haze was receding when she recognised the voice as her son Lorcan’s.

            Lorcan’s twin Lysander, as was often the case, finished for his brother: “Was Momum screaming again?”

            The form in bed beside her rolled over and lit the eternal candle on the bedside table with nonverbal magic. Luna calmed immensely with the addition of light.

            “She was. The light must have gone out.” Rolf Scamander stared at the candle, now floating above the nightstand, and frowned. “How this time…?”

            “Lorcan was tickling me—”

            “—and then Lysander _sneezed_ —”

            “—so I started _laughing_ —”

            “—and I got _angry_ —”  
            “—and the flame went out!” they both finished together. Sometimes, the shared brain between those two could give sleep-dazed parents a migraine, especially if one had just woken in a screaming fit. Luna should have named them Fred and George, for all the mischievous resemblance.

            “It went _zap_ ,” Lorcan clarified, adding, “It was well cool!”

            The boy was clearly picking up excellent vernacular from Muggle school, which had been Luna’s suggestion on a stable day. She had thought the children would benefit best from expanding their horizons before Wizarding school, especially to meet children their age given the gap between them and the children of her friends.

            “Is Momum alright?” Lysander questioned, voice soft with concerned and lacking the mischief it had previously contained. He was always one to worry over his mother.

            Rolf paused as he took in his wife beside him, but at last smiled at his boys. “Momum is fine, don’t worry. You lads head back up to your room and I’ll come read your favourite story, what do you say?”

            “Yay!” they answered gleefully, clasping hands. “ _The Tale of Peter Rabbits Tail!_ ”

            Their father smiled over their favourite, one from Beatrix Potter’s Magical convention, before her Muggle books. Rolf turned to Luna as the children scurried off.

            “Luna…?”

            “I’m proud of them,” she stated simply, voice hoarse in a way it had never been in her past. She attempted a full smile but didn’t feel it brush her eyes the way she used to love, the kind that made her feel her eyes were moon-lit pools perfect for Moon Frogs. Back when she believed. “They extinguished an external flame with the build-up and release of their magic, even untrained. They will make fine wizards.”

            “Wizards with the biggest hearts in the world,” Rolf added, smiling gingerly as he bent to kiss Luna’s hairline. “You rest, I’ll make some hot malt if you’d like.”

            Luna kissed his cheek and tried to reciprocate the gentle smile; it felt very fixed. “Thank you, Rolf. Don’t forget their favourite voices.”

            “How could I?” he questioned in a high, squeaky voice. He laughed—Luna tried—and he hurried off to put the twins to sleep again.

            Luna leaned back against her pillow and stared at the ceiling. Once there had been portraits of her friends’ families, which she had painted as a surprise during one of Rolf’s work trips in Romania. It was a week of peace and remembrance of Before times. When he had returned, he had told her it was absolutely bizarre to be looking up at the face of Harry Potter and Company. She had replaced it with rare creatures from the Arctic and a two-tailed Pine Martin, just because she thought they were cute; it was never quite the same. Luna sighed as she watched the Pine Martin chase a Miniature Yetti and pin it in a snow drift.

            In theory, she was a good mother; but one thing she had learned at school was that theory was not everything. Luna worked her hardest to open her heart the way it had always been open before, with trust, acceptance, endless love, serenity and strength. She thought it might be a fraction of the size now, like that Muggle story she had read about a rhyming green furry creature that had tried to steal Christmas. She hoped her heart would return the way his had, three sizes too big.

            Until then, she was detached. This made her, in reality, a bad mother.

            The pain of childbirth had surprised her in vying with the pain of torture and the pain of an evil dictator. She thought she had surely experienced all the pain there was to be had in this small-yet-large world of hers.

            Then she realised the pain of not fully being able to love a child for seeing so many parts of yourself within them because you cannot love yourself. She couldn’t find the self she was supposed to love, yet somehow found collections of it in her children. Luna thought that gave her a certain kind of love for them, but until the tinge of envy and resent left her, she could never fully love them.

            What was left of her heart hurt. This, she decided, was true pain.

            Rolf returned with a mug of warm, nearly-hot malt—her favourite temperature—and a warmer smile. She sipped at it as he read an academic magic journal, the page dog-eared to one on the Dissembling Aquatic Mussel, which Muggles called the Depressed River Mussel. Luna had been rather taken with them the year before. Rolf was waiting for her to finish; he had always been so patient. And understanding, she added, recalling that most men seldom appreciated sleeping with permanent candlelight.

            When she finished the malt and placed it on her nightstand, she turned and  pulled herself closer to him. He placed the journal on the table and smiled at her, beautiful dark eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

            Luna felt stiffen with arousal. She still found him and his body attractive, but seldom found such appetites present within her own body these days. Luna dropped her hand beneath the sheets and grasped him, glad to offer him a gift for his patience and skill with the children—and with her.

            As Rolf sighed himself into abandon and they tucked each other into sleep once more, Luna was reminded that things would be okay.

            The only question, then, was if Luna desired ‘okay’, or if she was looking for something…Luna.

 

 

“Parkinson,” Stanmore greeted with a lascivious lift-look as she entered the room. ‘Greeted’ was probably the wrong word for his perfunctory salutations, but Pansy was too uncomfortable to fix this.

            “St— _Master_ Stanmore,” she returned, fixing a doll smile to her face and widening her eyes the way she learned to in school to come off as more feminine. Stanmore reacted with a delighted grin.

            He just had the feel to him of an adolescent wizard who has just received his first _Wily Witches Weekly_ from his mates and is preparing to head out on the prowl to conquest over all young witches in his proximity. And, at moments like these, Pansy was intimately aware of her standing as a young within the company—and thus in his proximity.

            Pansy was not above sleeping—or, incidentally, _not_ sleeping—to where she needed to be, but she had standards. Good Slytherins had _standards_ that allowed them to rule over even fellow Slytherins. She would not put herself any closer to Stanmore than she needed to be; his breath could well enough keep her from that, precluding physical traits.

            “I received your application for the most recent promotion,” he stated, shifting the papers piled on his desk as if he actually read them.

            Pansy damned the spark of hope that bloomed in her chest: she did not _do_ hope! She did ruthless cunning, seductive manipulation and a bottomless pit of ambition…none of which she desired to use around Stanmore. He was waiting for a response. She swallowed.

            “You did?” she inquired, contriving feminine interest.

            “I did,” he repeated. He was a useless bulky example of manhood. Pansy coloured even thinking of his, and fervently wished to vacate the room and scour the image from her mind; she felt nauseated by it. “I’m afraid to say young Mister Brunstrum is more qualified for the position—with his experience in the field, of course—and has attained the position.” He tilted his head and feigned a sympathetic look; she thought he looked rather like a boar overdue for slaughter. “I do _encourage_ you to continue submitting your application when opportunities arrive. I trust you know what must be done to enhance your chances?”

            ‘ _Let you motorboat me_ ,’ Pansy snapped bitterly in her head. She composed herself. She had three times the field work of Bart Brunstrum and five times the brain, so unless Stanmore wanted her literally in the field amongst the butterflies, there was little more she could do to prove herself. She felt stupid: a Slytherin unable to prove her skill, where admittedly she had some.

            “Of course, Master Stanmore,” she answered at last, bowing her head and allowing a quick glimpse of her gently sloping neck—an attractive feature of hers, she knew, framed by a medium bob-cut of her straight black hair. She crossed her wrists—slim, and thus another attractant—before her cinched and shortened robes. “Will that be all, Master Stanmore?”

            “Yes, thank you, Parkinson. Please do visit any time. It’s my _pleasure_.”

            Pansy swallowed the dry heave has Stanmore’s eyes drifted down to the peaks beneath her robes. She turned, but knew the gaze had only drifted to the globes atop her legs. She swung the door open and offered over her shoulder, “Thank you, Master Stanmore,” before closing the door behind her.

            She hurried to the office’s female facilities—often unused—and dry heaved over the basin.

            Pansy glared at herself in the mirror. She _was_ scum: scum that submitted to the sexist, sexualised atmosphere of acceptability within the workplace. She had never wanted to be a hero before. Today, the day she would never be able to, she wanted to be a hero—not to add fame, not to get a paper, but to wipe that disgusting grin off Stanmore’s face once and for all.

            “You’re no Slytherin,” she spat at herself in the mirror.

            Long green talons—finger nails—pulled open a stall door behind her. The door opened to reveal the smiling crimson-painted lips and amused eyes of Rita Skeeter. “I think, my dear, you’ll find you are.”

 

 

The Three Broomsticks. No matter where one went in life or for how long, it seemed, returning to the old pub brought one straight back into student-hood—or at least the feelings of that time. It was a relief to an adult experiencing ‘real life’ not only after finishing school, but after facing the most powerful Dark Wizard of the times within memory.

            Luna was still not a big drinker, but on this occasion she opted for Russian Vampire Rum, recalling something she heard from a vampire during her travels. She spoke with Rosmerta for a while before heading to a corner table.

            This place gave her a tingly feeling somewhere inside; she recognised that she was feeling closer to herself, or at least the version that spent time here. When she saw movement in her peripheral, she briefly thought of Wrackspurts and smiled.

            She sipped her rum and drew pictures in the air with her wand, thinking of Ollivander as the man she met as a first year, bright-eyed and excited to grow into the world her parents had inhabited. When the picture transformed to the Ollivander she had known in the Dark Place and Shell Cottage, her heart didn’t wrench her stomach the way it had for years. It pinched. She sighed out the feeling and let the thoughts move on as they were wont to do.

            Luna thought of happy things, a _Patronus_ for a friend, and drew a rabbit in the air.

            “So you’re just as loony as you were in school,” a voice interrupted; Luna faintly recognised it.

 

 

The Three Broomsticks. Hogwarts was not always a good memory for Pansy, nor the entirety of Hogsmeade now, but the Three Broomsticks would always hold its own for the memories she had before knowledge of Dark Lords or Boys Who Lived or Bad Breakups or Sexist Bosses. School was not always a happy time, but it was a simpler time by comparison.

            Pansy ordered a firewhiskey—she wouldn’t skimp as tomorrow was Saturday and she would work from home—and gave Rosmerta a look that was less menacing than the looks from her school days. It wasn’t amiable, particularly, although any improvement was substantial for Pansy. She wasn’t a hero yet, but she wasn’t the strict bully she had been at Hogwarts either. She could damn Draco for that.

            “Ta,” Pansy offered with a hair swish as she received her drink; it was the closest thing to ‘thank you’ she would supply. She turned with her drink and took in the pub.

            She could truthfully say it hadn’t changed much. Same dim lighting and dusty interior, but the place felt cosy to her the way the Slytherin dungeon had. She recognised the form of Grubbly-Plank, that substitute she had had with the unicorns, off in one corner with the outline of McGonagall.

            Pansy shied away from that corner, not as confident in herself as she had been a second ago. She saw a flash of light in one corner and her gaze was pulled toward a picture of a rabbit drawn in the air. She squinted beyond the picture and recognised Luna Lovegood. Pansy shrugged one shoulder and approached.

            “So you’re just as loony as you were in school,” she remarked, more amused than malicious.

            Luna jumped and looked up. Pansy noted quickly that the woman seemed simultaneously the same in remarkable ways—gazing up with curiosity rather than reflex pain, the physical appearances—yet profoundly different in others. Her presence seemed quieter, less outwardly strange for it had been dimmed; it was more unnerving than anything else. Luna’s eyes were sadder and more pained than Pansy had ever seen, and that was the sort of thing a person had to be keen in picking up on to be a proper bully.

            “In a manner,” Luna replied coolly. Her voice was less dreamy and distracted, which made her sound cooler by comparison. Pansy found that on her end, each interaction was a juxtaposition of this Luna with the one she recalled from their school days.

            It surprised her completely, but she found she preferred the old secure-in-strange Luna over this adult version, who seemed less serene and comfortable in her own skin. It was the sort of thing Pansy was now trained to notice: she had to know people and their weaknesses, whether for exploitation or improved writing.

            “Want company?” Pansy inquired, resting her drink on the table with a subtle ‘click’. It seemed she couldn’t entirely turn off her aggressive work persona—subtle mind work to get in the situations she needed, acquire the information required.

            Luna’s gaze was striking, more honed than it once was, as she took in Pansy. “Not particularly, but I won’t mind.” She gestured at the chair across from her. “I would expect it least from you; you and your group were never very fond of me.”

            “We weren’t very fond of anyone,” Pansy confessed as she sat and arranged her robes over her legs. “We weren’t very fond of ourselves.”

            Luna smiled, slow with the barest touch of bitter, and tilted her head. She offered her glass. “I know the feeling.”

            Pansy touched her glass with a ‘chink’ and took a small pull; this conversation was worth drawing out. “Do you? You never seemed to.”

            “I didn’t. It’s an acquired mind set…to replace the Wrackspurts and Gnargles, I suppose.” Luna took a sip and closed her eyes. Her vulnerability and ability to be so present was certainly reminiscent of her old self. “Now I’m on the other side, I face what I brushed away with optimism before. I have made decisions that I must reconsider. I’m looking to find myself.” Her grey eyes probed Pansy, unnerving but settling in containing the perceptiveness they once did. “What are you looking for?”

            Pansy sighed and stared at her drink, recalling the incident of her day and the time she spent glaring in the mirror. “Evolution. Personal growth. A new skin.”

            “What for?”

            “My job—career. Journalism. I want to make it to the top, step over these pigs holding me down.”

            “What do you need to do that?”

            “A spine. A cunning plan…” Pansy faltered under Luna’s intent gaze. She decided to turn it around. “How are you finding yourself?”

            Luna gestured at their surroundings. “Memories, mainly. Maybe divorce. I’m not sure, exactly, or I would have tried it years ago—before the twins.”

            “Twins?!” Pansy gasped out, authentically surprised. She gave Luna the once-over and her eyes widened—genuinely, this time. “I’ve written a few fitness articles in my day. You look fantastic for twins.”

            Luna laughed. Pansy wasn’t sure she had ever heard the sound before, given her previous bully-victim relationship with the woman; she enjoyed the sound. The woman answered, “Oh, no, that was years ago. They’re seven now.”

            “And you’re thinking of divorce?”

            Luna’s eyes sobered. She sloshed the liquid around in her glass. “Yes. I’m really very fond of Rolf—we met out in the field in Japan, finding controls for an invasive seed-spitting bamboo—but I now feel I rushed into marriage and children. With everything I had fought for over, I was unsure of my future. I let Rolf be my future, and then the twins…but I can’t be in my future if I’m not all there, can I?” She inhaled and exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh but close. “I don’t think I can find myself in marriage. It will break Rolf’s heart.”

            “Will it break yours?”

            “It will, in a fashion. He has been my best friend, my love and my lover—they’re all intertwined, aren’t they? It’s hard to pick them apart. Then there are the twins.” Luna took a larger sip and swirled the drink again. “But I have to start making decisions for myself again. I have to stop being afraid and have hope, the way I used to.”

            “What took your hope away?” Pansy could feel herself playing the part of the journalist. Sometimes it seemed eerily close to a counsellor.

            “War?” Luna questioned, unsure. Her face had darkened. “Voldemort. Hogwarts. Malfoy Manor…”

            “Malfoy Manor?”

            “That’s a story for another time.” Luna pushed back in her seat and finished her drink. She paused. “Although I can feel that speaking on the subject is helping.” A slow smile spread over her features. “But for now I’ll change the subject. How are you going to fix your work situation?”

            “That could equally be evening conversation,” Pansy responded. She glanced at her drink and found it half full—or half empty, but she felt the prior more appropriate at present. “Meet me for evening drinks? Leaky Cauldron?”

            Luna considered this as she spelled her glass to the bar. When she turned, she was smiling loosely. She nodded. “It’s difficult, but talking is helping—I normally shut down. Leaky Cauldron. Half eight?”

            “That sounds fine.” Pansy stood and gripped her drink with her fingertips. Her tone changed to a jovial mimic of her school-day deliveries. “Though I can’t imagine why you would want to go back to _Loony Luna_.”

            Luna responded with a peaceful, carefree smile the way she once had in response to minor adversity. “And why ever would you want to change that charming personality of yours?”

 

 

Luna left the Three Broomsticks more at peace than she had felt in a while. She had connected with the person she had once been, begun fixing a sour relationship from her past and  started easing open the part of herself she kept locked away. A productive Friday afternoon, she believed.

            As she sat in her favourite café in Diagon Alley reading the newest version of _Naturalist News_ , she passively thought of her unexpected drink with Pansy.

            Luna had taken notice of Pansy’s form through her tight-fighting and surprisingly short robes. She always thought people grew more attractive with the discovery of further positive points; with this, Pansy was transforming from the snotty pug-faced girl of Hogwarts into a pretty, unique-looking woman of the witching world. Luna smiled as she admired this transformation in her mind.

            She was onto the abstract of her second paper when she recognised the faint stirrings of desire within her, something she hadn’t been truly in touch with for years. Luna imagined it probably wasn’t the new species of octopus.

 

 

Pansy remained to finish her drink, sitting back in the seat and staring at the one Luna had vacated. It was amusing how quickly the feelings of school-hood could evaporate and be replaced with something new and exciting.

            Luna had always been a pretty girl. That was partly why Pansy hated her; she had always hated pretty girls. She had grown to accept and lover her face as it was, but that was not something she had had during school—it was a falsehood then.

            Luna had always been so sure of herself and her beliefs. Pansy was surprised at the pain she felt to find that strong presence diminished. It had always been something to aspire to. Yes, that meant Pansy had once hated her, but things changed…and Luna was a pure-blood, as well, as if that meant much to Pansy these days. She wasn’t marrying, there was no Dark Lord threatening her family to choose a side and in the end blood was blood.

            It was the one thing she had managed to turn on faster than Draco, which gave her a little pride.

            Pansy thought of the woman once more. She couldn’t deny she was drawn to Luna. Whether it was as a moth to light or as a mourning mother to an orphan, she couldn’t tell. But if they were both in pain and looking for the right skin—new or used—surely they could assist one another?

            What _else_ would a Slytherin do but use someone else when she was available?

 

 

Luna was sitting cross-legged on the bed when Rolf entered their room around six. He read her face in an instant.

            “Luna, what…?”

            She cried and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hands. When she spoke, her voice was even—although soft. “Rolf, you know the problems I’ve had since we met.”

            He paled but nodded. “I do.”

            “I’ve been trying to get back to myself, the person I loved being, and I think I can only do that on my own. Am I being unreasonable? You know I have loved you and the twins dearly—and will continue to, with more depth if I am successful.” Luna stopped speaking and opened her arms, resting one forearm against each knee in the way she used to offer a hug if Rolf caught her meditating—even in the jungles or deserts of the world.

            Rolf, swallowing, moved to enter them. He did not restrain him to the rule of English dry eyes; when he felt an emotion, he felt an emotion. His eyes were moist.

            “You are not being unreasonable. We’ve spoken on this topic before. I don’t wish to hold you back from anything, and I know you wouldn’t leave us altogether. If our marriage and current situation does not work for you, it is my responsibility to listen when you inform me.” He pulled away and sat on the bed before her. “I can tell it isn’t working. Your nightmares have not abated, the boys drive you to headaches and the light-hearted Luna I came to love is far away. If anything, I want to be a gentle driving force for you to find her.”

            He smiled his most tender smile and clutched her hand. “I know that the twins will benefit from your happiness. They love you now, but if they ever meet the Luna you’re seeking, they will never wish to leave their mother’s side again. Nor do I. But if it will help, I will.”

            Luna grasped him and hugged him close. She recalled how he had charmed her during those difficult days in Japan, and how he had kept her love for so many years. It had only weakened as she took further steps from herself—not from him. Communication was what she had always needed; she had been seeking someone who understood. Now he understood her, but she did not. How could she love and understand someone else when she could not do either with herself?

            Rolf held her close. He whispered his next words. “If I am not the person you are meant to come back to, I will not hold that against you. You have always been that elusive blue butterfly and I have been lucky to keep you so long. If you must fly away from our romance in the end, please do not plague yourself with guilt over my pain, or yours. We heal with time and love.”

            Luna cried as she held him. Once, she had pictured a rocky divorce with screaming rows and levitated plates. She had thought that could be the worst possible end.

            But, once again, she was mistaken in what caused true pain. This split was smooth, lubricated with communication…and that made it hard. It was difficult to leave somewhere comfortable, even if leaving could mean finding the perfect palace.

 

 

Luna arrived at the Leaky Cauldron early and spoke with Hannah Abbot. She was relieved to find that Hannah and Neville were doing well; Hannah was looking pregnant again.

            Pansy arrived fifteen minutes late, looking a touch dishevelled. She bought the first round (and was rather surprised by her desire to do so) and led them to a dark corner, past the man stirring coffee as he read. They sat and made themselves as comfortable as possible, which wasn’t a surplus amount given the situations they had just left.

            Luna explained her previous conversation with her husband—ex-husband. She was going to become a divorcee.

            Pansy relayed her actions after leaving the Three Broomsticks: running into Rita Skeeter again and sharing a kiss in the loo. To Luna’s credit, the woman did not bat an eye. Instead it seemed the wheels in her mind were whirring away.

            “Is Rita above your boss in the hierarchy?” Luna inquired after a time.

            “Certainly is, after her role during wartimes,” Pansy answered automatically. Then she herself paused as the snake in her mind caught up. If Rita was interested in at least a snog in the loo, and Rita was above her current boss…that was all the sign of a ladder and hammer to break the glass ceiling she needed. Pansy grinned from ear to ear. “Luna, you are a career saver.”

            “Normally I don’t suggest such things,” Luna expressed calmly, sipping her drink and watching over the rim with big silvery eyes, “but I was sure you would come to that solution somewhere along the line. For compassion’s sake I thought it should be before you were sentenced to life in Azkaban for the manslaughter of your boss…no matter how many fantastic beasts live secretly in Azkaban.”

            “I’d prefer _not_ to find out, however fascinating, thank you.” Pansy gently touched her glass to Luna’s. “You know, for a Ravenclaw you sure can be cunning. How did you manage to hide that?”

            “A few days in the dark can do that to a person, and I never thought the Slytherins would approve of any similarities found in me.”

            Pansy grinned. “This one does.”

            “That makes it sound like a compliment.”

            “That’s because it is: cunning and clever make a good combination.”

 

 

Pansy dragged Luna up for some dancing when the magicked band played. She went to the piano and scrawled in the air over it with her wand: Piano Man. Her parents would have killed her for the Muggle selection, but she had heard it once on a wireless radio on the Hogwarts Express and had been drawn to the song’s entwining of melancholy and hope.

            She took Luna’s hand and spun her, bringing her close again until they were face to face—uncomfortably so, or it would have been, had it been uncomfortable.

            “I used to enjoy kissing,” Luna whispered, eyes glazed with memories. “Ginny taught me to kiss in school, when I got confused and thought a boy was infected by a Sourpus and trying to eat her face. I liked kissing then. Since the war, since that time Before Shell Cottage, I haven’t enjoyed kissing as much.”

            She spoke gently, not with incredible emotional pain but the touch of lamenting over facts; Pansy took it as the difference between a Ravenclaw or Slytherin and a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.

            “Do you enjoy doing more than kissing?” Pansy questioned, dipping to shimmy and gently brush her fingers up Luna’s leg. She wrapped one arm around the woman’s waist.

            “It feels better than doing nothing, the way breathing feels better than not breathing. But it doesn’t come with the pleasure of riding a Thestral or finishing a very good book.”

            Pansy laughed at the comparison. Luna seemed to be growing more herself by the moment, even when discussing the effects the war had reaped on her. This must have been the part of Luna that got her through such harsh times—the part that Pansy had never seemed to possess, but strove to acquire now. It was that calm inner peace and confidence in one’s ability to simply _be_ , even if one was able to do nothing more than that.

            “You’ve been married, though,” Pansy stated, as gently as she could.

            “I’ve been married,” her companion repeated. “But I was married for romance. Rolf and I expressed our love just as much through discovering and describing a new newt species as we did in the bedroom, and he understood my reluctance. We were able sometimes, as is evidenced by the twins.”

            Pansy nodded and turned herself in a quick circle, snapping down to the floor and swaying back up with her hips. She looked over her shoulder at Luna, who was making patterns in the air with her arms. “Do you think you’ll ever _enjoy_ it, like Thestrals or books?”

            Luna stopped to consider this as Pansy danced around her, arms and legs and hips in synch. At last Luna responded, “I think so, if I could stop the memories and the fear.”

            “How would you do that?”

            “Confronting the memories and the fear. Confronting the scene of my mind’s torment. Confronting Malfoy Manor.”

            Pansy nodded and grasped both of Luna’s hands, excited both at the prospect of helping Luna (for helping her) and annoying Draco and his child bride. “I can get you into Malfoy Manor. If you’re ready for it, consider it done.”

            Her companion stared long and hard, as if considering herself and her position, and at last blinked. “I never thought myself ready for marriage or divorce, and now I’ve been both. I suppose I’m ready to jump in and collect the pieces of myself. I’m ready.”

            Pansy gave Luna’s hands a squeeze. “I’ll reach you by owl as soon as I can. Until then, would you like to continue dancing?”

            “I never very much liked dancing,” Luna replied dreamily, remembering once again, “but I like dancing with you.”

            “It’s breathing being better than not breathing,” Pansy attempted to clarify, smirking slightly.

            Luna shook her head. “It’s like having plans to ride a Thestral in the evening, or starting the last chapter of a very good book.”

            Pansy laughed and they danced to the Crazy Crups’ “Fork It.”

 

 

Luna received an owl from Pansy two days later:

            _Luna,_

_Malfoy Manor is a go. Leaky at eight._

_Pansy_

So that was that, then. Luna first wondered if Pansy had written so concisely for contriving the feeling of being an Auror; Luna had once don’t that as a child. She folded the parchment and tucked it in her pocket when it struck her that tonight was the night: she would be facing her deepest fears, her life’s Boggart. She didn’t feel entirely prepared.

            But had she ever been entirely prepared for anything before? Being Luna Lovegood had always been enough, and somewhere deep down she still was. She just had to find it—and that was what she would do tonight.

 

 

Luna arrived at the Leaky Cauldron at 7.45, wearing the hood of her deep indigo robes and beneath a black cloak. She had taken to wearing darker colours years before but had dropped the stylistic statement of her inner mind when the twins were born. She did still feel closer to herself in lighter hues, but given the inner chasm she felt between her present and past self, she hadn’t felt much like feeling ‘herself’.

            Today didn’t seem the day for bright colours. Indeed, Malfoy Manor was in no way associated with light anything in her mind. Malfoy Manor was a dark, dreaded place and she would honour that with her clothing.

            She enjoyed the anonymity of her clothes and hood—no one would recognise her as Luna Lovegood with this cloth tucked about her. Luna had no desire to be recognised today, not in this state—perhaps if she was successful, and then it would be celebratory recognition.

            “I thought you might not come,” Pansy greeted—humorously, given it was 8.15 and she was the late party member. “I almost missed you in this dark coven garb. What’s the occasion?”

            Luna gazed up and didn’t speak. She didn’t appear judgmental, but it was clear she was not prepared for jovial jesting over such a personal matter. Pansy picked up on it like a Slytherin, so well-adapted to reading people—for their own means or otherwise. Today it was for Luna.

            “Draco has given me permission to use the Manor tonight. The family is visiting Astoria’s for the weekend. It will be us and the house elves. Are you ready?”

            Luna was prepared to respond ‘as ready as I’ll ever be’, but felt a surge of the inner strength she recalled once having. She answered, “Of course. Apparition?”

            Pansy grinned; Luna caught the feel of mischief around her. They began walking toward the entrance to Diagon Alley. “I thought it would put you at ease to ride Thestrals. I know a man on Knockturn Alley who keeps them, and he promised me two as thanks for writing up an advert for him.”

            “Thank you, Pansy, that’s very thoughtful.” Luna smiled and grasped Pansy’s hand, as much for support as gratitude.

            “Yeah, well, I thought I should use his service once before I give in the final write-up. Career first.”

            Luna’s smile turned to a grin as she nodded, but couldn’t quite believe the statement due to Pansy’s tone. She wouldn’t offend the girl by mentioning it. Affection didn’t have to be out in the open to flourish—not like Thestrals.

            Luna was crying for joy by the time they flew over Reading. It was difficult to believe that such ecstasy could be leading to pain and fear she could scarce comprehend, but such fluctuations seemed the normality of a war veteran. Regardless, she smiled while the length of the high.

            Pansy merely watched, thinking of unicorns, youth and Luna.

 

 

When they reached Wiltshire, Luna had to remind herself to take deep breaths. Even the Thestral seemed to notice her distorted presence and glanced over his shoulder at her. She stroked his neck and calmed herself, for him if not herself.

            They passed through the barriers of the Manor like smoke, which Luna remembered from Before. She almost screamed but bit her lip. The Thestral neighed.

            Pansy landed near the garden fountain and Luna circled once before following suit. She leaned forward and clung to the Thestral’s neck.

            “Do you think I can do this?” she whispered, trailing her fingers down its bony neck. It blew air from its nose and whuffled at her shoulder; she took the gestures to be actions of support. She slid from its back and turned to bury her face against its neck. “I hope so, too.”

            Luna stepped away and braced herself at the sight of the grounds. These weren’t familiar to her for she had spent her time indoors in the dark. In any other place, she would have considered these gardens beautiful and would have enjoyed them to the fullest; here they just seemed eerie and foreboding.

            She felt the light peck of a curious bird and turned to see one of the white peacocks. Her heart lightened somewhat: miniscule, but a discernable amount.

            “Hello there.” She sprinkled some crumbs from her pocket onto the ground. A naturalist always tried to be prepared for such things—and she had learned from Hagrid to keep various animal food sources in her pockets for surprise greetings. The memories calmed her further. Her mother came to mind, praising her maternal and compassionate instincts with ‘critters’. Perhaps she wasn’t a good mother yet, but this she was good at; remembering her strengths settled her.

            Pansy was watching her, a mixture of confusion and appreciation of Luna’s sentimental displays. “Ready?”

            Luna pulled a Butterbeer cork necklace over her neck and tugged raddish earrings into her ears. She nodded. “Ready.”

            They strode into the mansion.

 

 

The portraits were surprised and ruffled by their unannounced guests. Luna ignored them with all her might, singing in her head the old folk songs her mother taught her when she was young.

            “The Malfoys didn’t want the base here, you know,” Pansy said as she grabbed Luna’s hand and helped her keep taking steps down the entry corridor.

            “Lies!” one especially mean-sounding portrait hissed, but Luna out-competed her with a ballad of a man’s pumpkin head and corn-cob wife.

            “ I know. And they didn’t want to keep me, either, but their master did.”

            They kept walking, each step like the pounding of a story-high drum as it reverberated from the large room at the end of the hallway. Luna stepped onto the carpet so she would no longer hear her own entrance.

            When they reached the first room, it was as glorious as she remembered…and thus as terrible. Nothing so beautiful should ever have been used for death, destruction and disorder. The outward appearance of pleasant aesthetics made it all the more chilling. Luna brought her cloak tighter and continued onward past the furniture, fireplaces and mirrors until they arrived at a large blood-wood door.

            She gasped and bit her tongue, channelling thoughts of Thestrals and peacocks and her mother into her mind until her breathing stilled again. She knew what memories lay behind this door, and she knew that she had to battle through them to find the rest of the person she had left inside.

            “It was completely destroyed during the escapes,” Pansy explained as she approached the door. Even her approach was slow, fearful. This room had been the wicked inspiration for bards, poets, authors and all other communicators since the end of the war. It was a part of history the way Merlin’s death spot and the first banshee’s birth place were—everyone who had ears or eyes knew of it. “The Ministry had Draco rebuilt it, but he had them promise he could keep it locked all but one day a year—the anniversary. He gave me the password.”

            As if to protect Luna from it, Pansy bent down and whispered it into a symbol on the door—presumably in place of a doorknob. It was a phoenix and reminded her of Dumbledore.

            The door creaked open as if hesitant to follow through. Pansy stood before the opening and turned to watch Luna, assessing the woman’s stance.

            Luna squeezed her Butterbeer corks and stepped forward, brushing against Pansy as she pushed the door open.

            She froze when she was inside. The purple walls and chandelier were back. The huge rectangular table with pointed, tiered edges and the ornate, cushioned chairs. It was once more sinister for its beauty.

            The death eaters enjoyed defiling this room with torture, combining others’ pain with their pleasure—and their pleasure included the room’s beauty and public nature. Luna felt the shiver of remembered pain course through her body and gripped the table. Touching something within the room supported her but enhanced the memories.

            She saw herself hunched in the corner, naked, prodded with a heated wand in an attempt to pull the Trio’s whereabouts from her. Luna had not avoided the physical pain, and had kept in the moment of it with yielding acceptance and submission, but had played happy memories in her mind like photographs, endless loops.

            She recalled the feeling of sharp table edges pressed into her back until blood was drawn as she was entered from the front. Equally, she remembered the feeling of her hip bones jutting and bruising against the tabletop as she was entered from behind.

            So many punishments—but no, they were not punishments, for she had done nothing wrong. She had done everything right, and that was why they hurt her; it had made all the difference in the world to her. If she were wrong and evil and terrible, they would have embraced her—and that would have been worse than anything.

            But worse than the beatings, pain and humiliation from the drawing room under the sparkling chandelier was descending down into that dark place where the room felt coated in fear and no senses were pleasant. There she lied, which felt wrong, but she knew was for good.

            No one there could see the bruises, the scrapes or the falter in her walk (‘tripped, never very good with little light, of course…’). When Ollivander asked, she told him they didn’t touch her—not enough to truly hurt or break her. She comforted him when he came down with a broken wrist (‘see if that’ll make you speak up tomorrow’) and kept mum on her own aches and pain.

            They seemed little to her, in the bigger picture. She was one soldier in a war of many and it was her place to stay strong. Others needed her compassion; she would not diminish it by rewiring it to self-pity or hopelessness.

            In a place of permanent darkness and entrapment, one cannot light a candle; when one must live in blackened fear, hope can provide the warmth and light of candlelight.

            It was her duty.

 

 

Luna pulled open the floor latch to the secret room below and took three steps back, ducking to hug her knees. She had done the Drawing Room, but that was a place that still had light. Her real fear was what came in the dark, the daemon hopelessness that constantly threatened to seep into the prisoners.

            She crawled to the opening and stared at the darkness below.

            “Do you want a light?” Pansy asked from the other side of the opening. She did not look particularly settled either. Luna shook her head.

            “My fear  is of darkness; I can’t work through that with light.”

            Luna took a deep breath. She thought of her Gryffindor friends and extended that to envelope all houses, for it was not just the Gryffindors who were brave. There were brave knowing Ravenclaws, brave loyal Hufflepuffs and now, with Pansy and Draco, brave caring Slytherins. She took another deep breath.

            And then she jumped.

            She sprang forward down into the hole. She was intimately aware of the distance to the ground, having been pushed into it a number of times, and bent her knees at the perfect time for a smooth landing. It was so practised she felt no shock in her ankles.

            Light filtered in from the opening. Luna looked up.

            “Pansy?”

            “Yes?”

            “Can you either close the drop-door or come down and close it with you?”

            There was no answer for a moment. Luna waited patiently—for being in a room like this in moments that could have been seconds or eternities, one gained patience or insanity.

            Pansy’s voice was not steady when she answered. “I’m coming.”

            She took one steady step at a time down the ladder and closed the entrance above her. She felt hands at her hips and jumped, then relaxed into what she knew to be Luna’s touch—but how had Luna dealt, when in her time it could have been any hand? Pansy was relieved when she felt sure ground beneath her feet again. Luna stepped away and ended their touch.

            Luna was in the dark. It was darker than any dark most people ever experienced, or should ever experience. It was solitary, more alone than anyone should feel. Within hours within this place, one was no longer sure if there _was_ a hand before her face, if there was anything left to see even with straining.

            She could feel herself slipping into the mindset and reminding herself she had legs, had hair, had arms. She felt her breath along her hand.

            “Did you know it has been a minute?” she asked Pansy, innocent and childlike.

            “How did you know? It felt so long.”

            “Your pulse. If you make sure you stay calm and mind your breathing, your pulse will tell you the passing of time—and remind you you’re alive.” Luna inhaled and exhaled, audible and deep. “Ollivander started losing his count and would have me count for him. Then I told stories. We pretended there were campfires and fire sprites; sometimes we pretended so hard we saw a spark behind our eyelids.”

            “You almost speak fondly,” Pansy commented, slow and careful. She felt Luna grasp her hand.

            “I do. Sometimes that is what frightens me, that I could something so terrible providing good memories. Despite the smell, the frightful sounds, the leftover torture pain, the malnourishment and tasteless slop, the dearth of positive human touch…we still had human connection. It was intimate after its own fashion. You could bond with a new prisoner in a moment faster than a lifetime might bond two strangers in a marriage.”

            Her voice softened toward the end and she squeezed Pansy’s hand. “I told them I was not tortured, because they told me I gave them light. One little boy told me I was his fire sprite. No one wants to think of a fire sprite being beaten.”

            Luna cried, soft and contained; it echoed.

            “People died down here, and sometimes, if they never talked, you never knew their name. You didn’t know until someone screamed or until you smelled them. No one got to say goodbye to them. Others had rituals. It was death either way. Some seconds I was weak and wished I would be the next one to go, and then I would reach out to take someone’s hand because my energy was best served with support and hope, not a eulogy in my mind.

            “I have fond memories yet I wake up screaming in darkness.”

            “Scream now,” Pansy urged. “You heard so much screaming, but it was trapped screaming. You’re free. Let your screams go.”

            “It will be loud,” Luna answered, not arguing the idea itself.

            Pansy cupped her hands over Luna’s ears and whispered, “We’ll make do.”

            Luna covered Pansy’s ears and they pressed together. Luna screamed, raw and unrestrained: the sound of fear. Pansy joined, for if she was honest (which she generally wasn’t), she would admit she was also frightened out of her pants down here.

            When the scream grew hoarse it became a yell. Luna sensed a touch of triumph in the sound—‘I made it, I am free; I don’t have to be down here yelling and screaming but I am, because I am proving I can. I am _choosing_ this.’

            Pansy stopped when Luna did and they slumped, breathless, to the ground. It was clammy. They panted together, grasping hands.

            Pansy was surprised to find much of her resentment for Draco gone. She couldn’t explain it, but it had dispersed.

            Luna felt empty in a way she never had before. She wondered at the feeling of clarity, without the fog of daemons and remembrance and not knowing herself or her direction. She got an idea and decided to follow it, without any shadow of a doubt (for there was no shadow in darkness, and she owned darkness now rather than it owning her).

            “I’m going to kiss you,” Luna stated, dreamily but determined, “because I want to.”

            Pansy didn’t respond, for she had lips upon her own and they were moving, gentle and explorative. She caught surprise and leaned into the kiss, drawing a line over Luna’s lip with her tongue.

            Luna had heard moans in this place before—everyone had a different way of coping—but one had never been her own. This felt much better than breathing over not breathing. She was turning the page onto the last of a good book and mounting a Thestral, preparing for flight.

 

When Luna was arched and panting for lack of desire to breathe (the irony was not lost on her), she grasped at Pansy’s robes beneath the woman’s waist. Her thoughts were fuzzy, but she believed the best final act she could perform to destroy her trauma was experiencing an action once used for torture in a feared place as an act of pleasure in a place she had triumphed over.

            She clutched her cloak and yanked it off, using her wand to transfigure it into a strapped toy before it hit the ground. Luna levitated it into Pansy’s hand, wordless. The woman explored the object with her hand and gasped, excited and surprised.

            “This?”

            “Please. Against the wall.” Luna kissed Pansy hungrily, pressing the strap-on between the woman’s legs even atop the cloth. She pressed her forehead to Pansy’s and breathed deeply again. “Lubricant?”

            “That way?” Pansy questioned, figuring at this point Luna would be ceaseless surprises. The woman nodded against her and ended the action in another scorching kiss.

            “I want to reclaim it, this place, myself, my consent… Please.” Luna straddled Pansy and circled her hips, back and neck arched back, hair flowing down onto Pansy’s covered legs. “I want to fly.”

            Pansy stood them both up and removed a pouch from her bag. Yes, she was that sort of woman and yes, she was currently involved with Rita Skeeter in a rather physically personal way. She shrugged out of her clothing and held the packet with her teeth as she fumbled with the straps—she knew the devices well, but not well enough for perfection in pitch black. Luna kissing her neck from behind was rather distracting as well.

            At last she finished the task and turned to seek Luna’s mouth; she found it quickly and soon discovered Luna was equally undressed. Pansy moaned at the feeling of Luna pressing against her, moving a strap against her slit.

            Luna pulled her to the wall and shushed the water bowl she accidentally kicked on the way. When they reached the wall, Luna reached and found Pansy’s nipple.

            Pansy’s hands trembled as she ripped the pouch of Faeriebaerrie Flavoured Floobricant open; she pooled it in her hands and rubbed it against her newly-acquired shaft. She rested the back of her hand against Luna’s rear—once she found it at the bottom of the woman’s back—and sought entrance. Luna pressed her hand down until Luna slathered the area.

            Pansy kissed from Luna’s shoulder to the hairline behind her ear, whispering, “Are you ready?”

            “More than,” Luna whispered back, reaching to pull Pansy to her by the hips; she groaned at the feel of the shaft poking her bottom. “Please.”

            Pansy nipped the slope of Luna’s shoulder and spread her, pressing the tip against Luna’s hole after considerable blind shifting. Luna didn’t give Pansy the opportunity to hesitate; she pressed back and accepted the tip with a gasp. She exhaled slowly and pushed herself down further, pulling Pansy ever closer and taking a moment to accept the size of it.

            Pansy was overwhelmed by the feeling of Luna upon her, shifting and circling. It rubbed her in just the right way. She wrapped her arms around Luna’s slim waist and spread her arms, allowing one to lift to Luna’s attentive nipple and the other to dip down to the woman’s peeking clit.

            “Mmm,” Luna murmured, placing one hand over Pansy’s and lacing her fingers between the woman’s. She pulled herself forward against the wall, off the sheathed toy. When she returned to press against Pansy’s front, the wielder got the idea.

            She began a slow and steady motion, attentive of Luna’s various cries and gasps. When Luna bucked and released a low, guttural moan, Pansy increased her tempo and pinched Luna’s nipple.

            It was a long process but Pansy did not mind, and she had honed her stamina through the years. She could only imagine how many thoughts Luna was abolishing to continue this act. Pansy blew air against the back of Luna’s neck and shoulders, attempting to mimic the cool sensation of flight. She pecked at Luna’s skin with her lips, darting her tongue out and circling it where it landed. All the while she kept her pace.

            When Pansy felt Luna’s muscles grow tenser, she increased the barest amount and bit Luna’s shoulder above the collarbone—not hard, but enough pressure to draw notice; she lapped with her tongue. As Pansy began tweaking Luna’s nipple, circling her clit and pumping with increased rigour, Luna cried out with her muscle spasms and clear mind.

            “Free! Pansy!”

            She lifted her arms above her head and cradled Pansy’s head from above, turning to press her cheek against Pansy’s and moaning. Pansy released her constraints and focused on the sound of Luna’s pleasure, imagined the look of ecstasy over the woman’s ethereal features. She shuddered to a climax and rested her cheek against Luna’s neck, holding her close around the hips.

            When her legs felt sturdy once more, Pansy pulled out and stooped to kiss Luna’s lower cheek, giving the other a playful nip. She nosed her way up the crease of Luna’s spine and ended with a kiss to the start of Luna’s neck.

            The woman turned and kissed her, tender and tranquil—a kiss of completion.

            “For the first time,” Luna began with another grateful kiss, “I saw real light in this room. They looked like Fire Sprites. I think it was the light of hope.”

            “You must have the strangest pillow talk in the country,” Pansy remarked with a chuckle.

            Luna shifted; Pansy guessed she was tilting her head. “Pillow? I don’t talk to pillows. I _would_ talk to Fire Sprites—I’m sure they would be excellent conversationalists. Conservationists, too.”

            “My, you’re dedicated.”

            “You of all witches would understand career-dedication.”

            “Even after this?”

            “Who was the last person you did this for? And was it not an act of career dedication?”

            Pansy laughed and kissed Luna between the eyes; she had been aiming for the woman’s nose, but that aim was always difficult in these instances. “You’re not afraid anymore?”

            “Afraid after _that_? No. I haven’t felt this way in…a Waterbee’s lifetime, I imagine. Are you afraid?”

            “A little frightened I don’t know where the exit is, but other than that, no.”

            Luna laughed—the first Pansy had heard that evening; it sounded beautiful in the dark, and Pansy could understand how some memories could be silver linings to the biggest storm of a millennia. Suddenly the room was light and Pansy had to cover her eyes.

            “We are witches, you dunderheaded Dabberblimp. We can make things light.”

            Her statement was jovial, yet seemed less superficial than it seemed. Pansy rolled her eyes and drew her wand to her, spelling the strap-on away. It hung in the air before her. She doubled over with laughter.

            “I shagged you with a rounded unicorn horn?”

            “Yes, regrettably Thestrals don’t have horns.”

            The drawing room seemed less sinister when they exited the secret basement room. The purple seemed brighter, more embracing; the chandelier appeared less like the glimmering eye of a daemon; the furniture looked benign and prepared for communal discussions. When the portraits of the entry hall wouldn’t shush, Luna merely smiled at their peculiarities and differences.

            The night-time sky under a fool moon no longer reminded her of the one light presence between illumination and blackness. Instead, she smiled up at its fullness.

            She would never fear the full moon again; she could love the night again.

 

 

Weeks later they met gazes across a crowded rental ballroom. Luna was hand-in-hand with her twins, all dressed to the nines. Rolf was a few steps away, smiling at his ex-wife. They were chatting merrily about something—surely some new subspecies of Bowtruckle, or something.

            Pansy made her way across the room, cutting short the conversations others began with her. When at last she reached Luna, the woman was alone. Pansy smiled.

            “Hello, Head Assistant Reporter for the Daily Prophet…I was wondering if I could get a quick word with about your newest award?”

            Luna smiled serenely and offered her hand. When Pansy took it, the woman led her away, out to a balcony showcasing the countryside beyond.

            “You got the promotion,” Luna observed, smile remaining.

            “I got the promotion,” Pansy confirmed, smirking. “Rita Skeeter was incredibly eager to get a word in with my boss; she bypassed him and hired me as her assistant.”

            “As anything else?” Luna inquired, eyes sparkling. There was no jealousy to be found. In that way, Pansy adored Luna. Slytherins did not get along with strings.

            “Perhaps. She reports I have many skills and much to learn. And you: have you found Rolf again?”

            Luna shook her head slowly, without emphasis that would imply any offense at the question. “For the first time in two decades, I am entering into a peaceful and respectful new relationship with myself. I am learning who I have grown into while I wasn’t able to see it and reconcile myself. I am very happy.”

            “You seem it.” Pansy smiled and threw her glance to a middle-aged couple in the centre of the ballroom. They were dancing, but often stopped to watch Luna. Pansy pointed them out. “They’ve been watching you all night; I think they’re interested.”

            Luna kissed Pansy’s cheek and offered a wispy smile, eyes twinkling with the mischievous tilt of her head and the moonlight. “Perhaps that could be a new adventure.”

            “And about this new award, since I also have to do my job…”

            “My, you’re dedicated,” Luna intoned, grinning at the phrase she had once recently heard about herself. “Yes, the Crown-Crested Bowtruckle and their magical properties…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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